Datum Perficiemus Munus
by X4uth0r
Summary: The mission was relatively straightforward: calm the CIA down via sitting in on a flight from New Jersey to San Francisco. Ian should have known things were never that simple- as a disastrous terrorist attack proceeds to kill thousands. Oneshot. Tribute written for 9/11.


**A/N: Written out of respect to the 3000+ people that lost their lives in the 9/11 terrorist attack... not to mention the friends and family members of the deceased. You have my sincere condolences; I am sorry for your loss.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider. However, the following depicts real people and events. Names have been changed for the respect of the deceased.**

O-o-O-o-O

Brett Delgado sighed. " _More_ terrorist chatter? What is it this time?!"

"There's always chatter," Tasha Richards- his fellow co worker- grumbled along with him.

Price raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Just get an agent on it. If it helps, I think MI6 is already in the area."

Brett and Tasha exchanged knowing glances. "Sure thing, boss."

O-o-O-o-O

"I _just_ completed two back-to-back missions," Ian practically snarled into the mobile. "What _more_ do you want? Besides, I promised Alex I would be home a week ago!"

 _"I dislike your tone, Agent Rider."_

Ian tensed, recognizing the hint of warning. He stayed quiet, allowing Blunt to continue.

 _"It should be nothing,"_ the voice assured him slickly. _"Just a way to get the CIA off our backs about some terrorist chatter- just think, a five-hour flight from New Jersey to San Francisco, and then you can see Alex._ "

Ian forced himself to calm down. He paused, thinking hard for a moment. "Alright," he agreed reluctantly. "I'll do it."

O-o-O-o-O

One of the best ways to flush out terrorists was to try and mess with their plans.

That was why Ian found himself slipping past security and talking with the pilot of the flight. It wasn't _always_ the best way- to blow his cover before the flight even took off. However... Ian had already thoroughly gone over the flight crew- they all seemed to check out. It was harder to examine the entire passenger manifest of thirty-three people, but he had briefly skimmed it- there wasn't anything _too_ suspicious.

Ian flashed his Air Marshal badge. "I need you to delay the flight for approximately thirty to forty-five minutes," he ordered quietly, expertly hiding his British accent. "I can't tell you why, only that it's a matter of national security."

The spy knew any true patriot would agree if they thought they were serving their country; it had worked many times in the past.

The pilot nodded reluctantly. "That shouldn't be a problem." He turned to a nearby crew member. "We're delaying the flight for roughly forty minutes," he barked.

She hesitated. "Why, sir?"

"Report it as unexpected maintenance due to mechanical failure." He caught Ian's eyes. "And this needs to stay quiet."

The crew member nodded before going back to work.

Back in the waiting area, Ian carefully gauged the passenger's reactions as they heard the loudspeaker announcement.

 _"United Airlines Flight 93 to San Francisco is being delayed, due to mechanical issues. Approximate time for take-off is at 8:30. Thank you, and we apologize for any inconvenience."_

Most of the passengers seemed annoyed- a few muttering curses, others groaning as they flipped out cellphones to inform their friends, family, and coworkers they would be late.

Ian inwardly sighed when he saw nothing out of the ordinary- but most likely, nothing would happen; he could only hope for the best.

O-o-O-o-O

Ian constantly scanned the passengers for suspicious activity- but there was nothing.

It had been a little less than a half-hour since take-off; the time was 9:11am.

There was absolutely _nothing_.

Although it was supposed to be an easy mission, Ian knew not to let his guard down.

"You heading back home?"

The spy shook himself free from his observation-mode, slipping into the businessman he was posing as. "Yes, just getting back from a business trip," Ian answered smoothly. "What about you?"

The man- Marc Sanders, if was remembering correctly- grinned. "Yeah, I got the package deal- wife and kids. You married?"

Ian forced a smile. "A nephew- I'm his guardian."

Marc nodded in understanding. "Unfortunately, I'm what you would call a workaholic," he admitted. "I try to find the time... but at the same time I'm trying to put a roof over our heads, and food on the table." He glanced meaningfully at him. "You look to me like you're in the same boat."

Ian winced inwardly. Midlife crises... who needed them? It was true that he wasn't the ideal parent... but he had his reasons.

He shrugged. "Just the usual teenage drama. Nothing too serious- Alex is a good kid."

The spy reminded himself of his mission; he needed to find a way out of the conversation- he couldn't afford distractions like small talk; he had a job to do.

"Hey, sorry, I need to... you know," Ian flashed a sheepish grin, moving to his feet- he, characteristically, had chosen an aisle seat.

Marc nodded. "Of course."

With that, Ian slipped cautiously down the aisle, scanning people as he went.

The spy hated staying in the enclosed space for very long, but going to the restroom was the best excuse to get Sanders off his back.

He glanced at his cellphone- 9:17am. If something was going down, it would be soon. Thankfully, he hadn't gotten any new of anything happening on the outside- but could they be using some sort of advanced jammer? It was certainly a possibility.

Of course, nothing had happened _yet_...

Ian froze, cursing when he heard the unmistakable sound of screaming.

He was about to burst out of the restroom, when the door opened; Ian had just unholstered his Desert Eagle when the mace took him full on in the face. He involuntary coughed, refusing to go down until he felt the taser hit him.

O-o-O-o-O

Ian awoke to Marc looking down at him, concerned.

It only took a moment for him to realize his weapons were gone, and that his arms were cuffed behind him.

"They knew you were an Air Marshal," Marc whispered. "It was the four men that were Middle Eastern. They said they have a bomb."

"Where are they?" Ian asked urgently. "And how long was I out?"

The man paled. "They killed everyone in the cockpit and... some of the passengers and crew." The man gave him a tight smile. "Don't worry, they're all in the cockpit." He glanced at his watch. "It's five till ten."

"Get my overhead bag. Pass me the case that's in it," Ian ordered, mind racing.

Frowning, Marc moved to obey.

9:55- no, 9:56am, now.

They hadn't restrained any of the other passengers- only the Air Marshal. Yet they also hadn't thought that Air Marshals were issued with lock-picking kits. Which, technically, they weren't.

"It's in the smaller pocket," Ian guided.

It didn't take long before he had his picks; shorter still when his hands were free.

Marc bit his lip. "They said they have a bomb- and that they're going to go back to the airport."

The man seemed to see his hesitance. "We're going to die, aren't we?"

Ian reluctantly nodded. "But they don't have a bomb."

Marc seemed confused. "Then why- ?"

Before he could answer, the cellphones- the ones hooked up to the wi-fi- lit up.

"Oh my god!"

"Look, have you seen the news?!"

"We weren't the only plane that's been hijacked."

One of the flight attendants was talking on the airphones. A moment later, he turned to explain to the passengers. "The World Trading Center was hit over an hour ago- we only just learned. Two hijacked planes hit the North and South. No survivors from the planes."

There was a sudden buzz of conversation- a sense of panic and dread.

"We're going to die," Marc said numbly.

Ian drew him close. "Listen, we need get to the cockpit."

Marc looked at him in understanding. If they attacked them, the hijackers would intentionally crash the plane and miss their target. Forty people was better than another thousand.

The man smiled sadly. "Don't worry, I'm already a step ahead of you. Another passenger and a flight attendant and are already planning on it."

"But- " he began to protest.

"You've got your nephew to look after," Marc pressed. "I know you've got a parachute- I don't know who the hell you are, but you're no Air Marshal."

Ian opened his mouth to form an excuse, but no words came out.

Marc paused, seeming to consider something. "My son died in car crash- he was drunk. I wasn't there for him. Don't make the same mistake." He didn't wait for a reply, turning to another passenger that was wielding a fire extinguisher, and one of the flight attendants with a few pitchers of boiling water. "Are you guys ready? Alright, let's roll!" Marc yelled enthusiastically as the three of them headed to first class- and the cockpit.

It only took Ian a moment to open one of the emergency exits, slipping on the parachute MI6 had provided.

He heard the screaming as he jumped out.

And then there was silence.

O-o-O-o-O

"Three of the passengers successfully took over the plane , but the hijackers intentionally crashed the plane in Pennsylvania; their original target is still unknown," Blunt informed him. "However, their act of bravery saved the many lives that would have died if the plane had met its target."

Ian nodded wearily, confirming the report. It had been over forty-eight hours since he had slept- more since he'd had a good meal. He was tired- so tired of this; of being constantly surrounded with death. Tired of the many people who had died to insure his survival. Just so... _tired._

"Is that all?" he asked with forced politeness.

Blunt's eyes swept over him, ever evaluating and assessing. "Yes, you are dismissed."

O-o-O-o-O

Alex looked up, eyes brightening slightly as Ian entered through the front door. "Ian," he greeted quietly.

Ian nodded coolly to him, stalking into the kitchen where Jack was cooking dinner.

He allowed her to yell at him for a good five minutes before calming her down. "Are your parents OK?" he asked quietly- the past few days must have been stressful, to say the least.

"Yeah, they're fine," she answered, still suspicious of his sudden appearance after what people were calling as one of the worst terrorist attacks in U.S. History.

Jack crossed her arms. "Alex was worried about you- you were supposed to be back over a week ago."

The spy looked at her, eyes dull. "He's thirteen. Alex is mature enough to understand that our schedules do not always co-align perfectly."

Jack clenched her jaw, but the woman was used to it- she had lived with them for over six years now, but she didn't know how Alex could stand him- or how Ian treated him.

With that, he gracefully sat down at the kitchen table. "Alex?" Ian called.

A moment later, the boy entered the room, a wary expression on his face.

"Analyze all the news footage on the 9/11 attack," he ordered. "I want you to tell me what the security holes were and how they were exploited. Also, predict how America will respond to it, security-wise, and if it will be effective. If not, provide what you think should be the solution to prevent those kinds of terrorist attacks in the future." Ian paused. "Understood?"

Alex wearily nodded. "Yes, sir."

Ian ignored the death glare Jack was giving him, and shoved aside the guilt from Marc's final words.

His conscience would never be completely clear of how he had raised Alex, but he had his reasons.

It was the only way to protect Alex from MI6.

O-o-O-o-O

 _"Datum perficiemus munus."_ We shall accomplish the mission assigned.  
-Motto of Batalhão de Operações Policiais Especiais (BOPE), Rio de Janeiro


End file.
